There is a routine that I have developed over the past several years when traveling. It usually involves getting up early and working out, then a shower and change, then find a Starbucks or Panera. For some reason having a routine sort gives me a sense of orderliness in the midst of my travel which usually is a mildly controlled chaos. It is a comfort to me that I know what I am doing next when I first get up when on the road.
This morning I had set my alarm for my usual 5:30 intending to hit the fitness center. At 5:25 I realize there is a pretty monotonous pounding that I can't get out of my head. The longer I listened the more it sounded like someone hitting a pretty good pace on the treadmill. Inspired by someone else's discipline (and afraid the fitness center would be full) I pulled on my workout stuff, stretched the old muscles in legs and back, and headed out to find the fitness center. It didn't take me long, it was directly under my room, thus the pounding. There was a young man on the treadmill apparently trying to run a record marathon. I chose the elliptical as far away from him as possible. I had set my nice 3.5 mile pace on the machine when all of sudden the place filled up with dad, 2 pre-teen daughters, and 1 teenage son. It was all I could do to stay on track and pace because they all sounded like the Swedish Chef, one of my all time favorites (perhaps only eclipsed by Dr. Bunsen Honeydue and Beaker) Only in NYC can you get this kind of language soup. The more they talked the more I got tickled about how they sounded. I know it is a bit ironic that someone with my West Texas twang gets to laugh at anyone else, but I have never valued consistency. Then the longer I listened I realized the Mr. Chef was doing most of the talking. Apparently the little Chefs were well into the teen, sullen years and it was only 6AM. By the way, Mrs. Chef was nowhere to be seen. I guess Mr. Chef knows who he can coerce into the fitness center at 6:30AM and who he can't.
I was still laughing about the Chef's when I decided to trek down 49th St to a Starbucks and realized along the way that there are a lot of people in the City who have dogs. A couple of them sort of snarled at each other (dogs not the people) and the Korean/Chinese/Thai owner of one of the dogs really lit into her dog. All this made me wonder if dogs learn the language of their owners. Does an English sheepdog have trouble learning Chinese? Can an Irish setter ever feel at home with a Somalian family? Do you think when the Irish setter finally finds a home with the McNeils he breathes a sigh of relief? Do you think a Chihuahua pup will look at his Swedish owners and say to himself, "What the ...?"
I finally get to the Starbucks, get my yogurt, my Grande, and my pastry (yes, I earned a pastry with the workout with the marathoner) and sat looking out the window at all the New Yorkers hurrying to work and realized while I was sitting there that I heard at least 4 different languages in the space of 30 minutes. It made me realize that the one of the reasons people seem to love NYC is the very diversity that makes others uncomfortable. It makes me wish I had a better feel for languages (beyond Texan.) Their lives are different, their language is different, their worldview is probably different. But at the core we all desire family and belonging, a place in the world, a purpose, whether these are expressed in English or Chinese or Swedish, or Urdu. We want our spot to be unique and fitting.
Godspeed to the Chef family, you made me laugh and long for home.
Don
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